


After

by antheiasilva



Series: Emotional one-shots [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Jedi Code (Star Wars), M/M, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Party Like It's 1999, Post-Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Qui-Gon's death, Yoda is a Troll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/pseuds/antheiasilva
Summary: Written for the 20th anniversary of The Phantom Menace.Obi-Wan on Naboo after Qui-Gon's death.--He slips his hand from his master’s for the last time.





	After

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Tohje who read this over and cheered and gave much beloved feedback.
> 
> Many thanks to Helen (quiobi-lover on Tumblr) for running the Party Like it's 1999 Phantom Menace 20th anniversary challenge.
> 
>  
> 
> Believe me when I say this fic was 20 years in the making. I have been thinking about Obi-Wan's experience of Qui-Gon's death and struggling capture it in words since I saw the movie on May 22, 1999. Here is my attempt.

His master’s head lays heavy on his knee, body cradled in his lap, stiff fingers still curled around Obi-Wan’s own. He is staring at the grey in his master’s beard, wondering when it had grown so dense. He smooths his master’s hair, still damp. The odor of burnt flesh cannot hide the sour tang of sweat and salt and skin drenched in Tatooine’s sun. 

Alive, breathing, moving, only moments before. 

Perhaps. Perhaps hours. He does not know how long...

Boots slap against polished duracrete. A hiss-snap of shields disengaging.

“Master Jedi! The control ship is destroyed. The battle is w—” 

Shuffling. More boots. Whispers. The crackle of an intercom. 

Quiet breathing. He is no longer the only living thing in this hollow, cursed place.

A hand on his shoulder.

“Sir?”

He nods without looking up. There will be pity in the pilot’s eyes.

“We can help. Let us.”

_No, you can’t._

_Get up, Obi-Wan. It is time_. He hears —imagines— his master say.

It is a small, simple movement. Tiny, even. Just a shift and slip of his hand. Before he can rise.

He is frozen, hanging, reaching. He has to move _up_. He has to—he promised. 

The Dark hums with power, beckoning, offering. 

The Light is quiet, still. 

He thinks of Qui-Gon in sunlight and green, mouth quirked, eyes bright. 

Pain, white-hot and sharp, flares in his chest. The feeling of breaking, falling is sickening. His stomach drops. The world blurs. His breath is gone. 

He slips his hand from his master’s for the last time.

 

———

“What? Here? Is there no preparation? Will we not bring him to Coruscant?” _Will he not come home? How will I visit him on Naboo?_

“He is with the Force now, Obi-Wan. We will burn his body as it is.”

Mace touches his shoulder. He tries not to flinch.

“Let me… wash...his hair.”

A silent nod, lips pressed. The only sign of grief is the glint of light against the moisture in the Korun master's eyes.

He should be stronger than this. 

He is not.

They will forgive "Sithkiller" this small weakness.

 

———

He runs shaking hands over Qui-Gon's body. For how long had he burned to touch his master like this? Curves of muscles, angles of bone. He will memorize every dip, every plane, every shadow.

His eyes flutter closed as he kisses his master's brow. He half expects to find heat, a pulse, beneath his lips, as if by some magic of the Force his master could breathe again. 

Some magic of the Force. Or something as banal, as human, as love.

He washes Qui-Gon's hair for the first and last time, running his hands through silver strands, careful not to pull or wrench, as if his master could still feel pain, as if there were any pain in the room but his own.

He steals a lock of hair.

_A Jedi shall not keep possessions._

But he can keep his own braid.

He plaits their strands together. No one will notice the grey. It reflects the red.

 

———

Anakin is moving, moving, moving, and all Obi-Wan wants is stillness. The world is turned on its axis, spinning, gravity disrupted, wrenching him towards the earth; letting him float, drift away. 

He tells the story of Maul over and over again until he cannot recognize his own voice.

The palace is busy with preparations. The Council thrums with awe and possibility. 

He braces for a fight he never has to have. 

“Agree with you the Council does.”

There is no relief, just a different kind of weight.

He blames Anakin for moving, but he is unable to stop. 

He craves quiet, but fears it may break him.

“I miss him. I wish he was here. I'm scared.”

“I know, Anakin. I'm here. We will do this together.”

 

———

_Breathe_

Flame.  
Smoke.  
Ash.

_Breathe_

The press of bodies.  
Swish of robes.  
Sorrowful eyes in the dark. 

_Breathe_

Embers.  
Earth.  
Empty.

_Breathe_

Alone.

_Breathe_

_There is no death, there is the Force_.

_Breathe_

 

———

I'm so sorry.  
He was a good man.  
I know you were close.  
He was so proud of you.  
I cannot imagine.  
Be strong.  
He is part of the Force now.  
It will fade in time.  
My condolences.  
I'm so sorry.  
You're doing very well.  
Mourn him do not, miss him do not. Attachment, Obi-Wan.  
He would not want you to weep.  
He had such faith in you.  
He was a kind man.  
He will be remembered.  
He saved Naboo.  
He saved my life on Pentos IV.  
I'll never forget the time he…..  
No one is ever really gone.

_But I can never touch him again._

 

———

Trumpets are blaring and the sunlight turns armour into glittering mirrors.

He draws on the Force and waits. 

 

———

He is watching Anakin stumble through a kata in a courtyard when Padme finds him.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Yes?”

“We...the staff…. they found… It's his robe. I apologize— I know it should have burned with him. But I thought…”

He fears his knees will give way when he crushes the bundle against his chest. He will not cry out, though he cannot hold back a gasp. The robe still bears his scent.

His throat is too tight. He chokes on his thank you, and nods, squeezes his eyes shut. 

A gentle hand on his elbow. He sinks on to a nearby bench. Distantly he hears her call Anakin for latemeal. 

No one is around to see him dissolve, only the chirping insects that announce the pink-purple dusk and the birds that sing in the waning light. 

At least the world is louder than his tears.

 

———

Halfway to Coruscant, wrapped against the chill of space, a small warm hand sneaks inside his, squeezes. 

“Don't let go.”

“I won't.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”


End file.
